He entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.” So he hurried own and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, “he has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.” Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.” Then Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he, too, is a son of Abraham.” For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”
Luke 19: 1-10
A simple story of less than 200 words. There is not a lot of detail; the action and dialogue unfold in a matter-of-fact way. Jesus’ pronouncement at the end of the story is almost like a moral. Like the reason Luke is telling this story is to let us know Jesus comes to seek out and save the lost.
But the lack of detail and the matter-of-fact telling can be an invitation to use our imagination and enter more deeply into the story.
Here are my thoughts and feelings, my experience of using Ignatian contemplation with this story.
While this type of contemplation makes use of the imagination, it is more than an imaginative exercise. Ignatius considers it a form of prayer, and so, I ask God to open my mind and my heart to whatever is there for me to experience and embrace.
I begin by using my imagination to enter the scene. The air is warm. It is also dusty from the crowd of people scurrying about in one place to see Jesus as he enters the city. Normally, people would be going about the business of the day, but today, there is excitement in the air.
I enter into the scene as one of the members of the crowd. Almost like a spectator, because I don’t know who this Jesus is and why people are so excited to see him. I should ask someone who this man is. Will I be just as excited as everyone else when I learn that he is a religious teacher? Will I continue to follow along as a spectator? Or will I just leave and go do my tasks of the day?
Jesus is just walking slowly through the town with a small group of men and women following him. There doesn’t seem to be any intent on his part to stop and to speak words of wisdom to the crowd. Why would all these people set aside the business of the day just to watch a man walk through town? What am I missing? Is what I am missing important?
Scattered about on the path through town are trees. The movement of limbs in one of the trees captures my attention. I look up and see man sitting on one of the limbs. It seems he is waiting for Jesus and the crowd to pass below him. Because of all that is happening, no one seems to notice him. I begin to wonder: Why is he up there? What are this man’s intentions?
And then, unexpectedly, I am no longer looking at the scene as a spectator. I am Zacchaeus in the tree. The crowd gets closer, and I get a glimpse of the man I have come to see. From the moment I learned that Jesus may be coming through, I have planned on being here. And even with all that planning, part of me screams: Why am I here? What am I hoping will happen? What will I do when he passes beneath you? Will I cry out? Or will I just watch go as he leaves town?
Perhaps the excitement and the pounding in my heart is what means the most.
There is little in my life that gives me this pounding excitement. I have a good life. I live comfortably, and I provide well for my family. I attend synagogue and do my best to practice my faith. And yet, I go through the motions of life. One day is just like the next. Sometimes, that rhythm and routine are comforting. Other times that rhythm and routine fill like a rut.
So here I sit in a tree, waiting and anticipating. And even now, if you asked me what I am anticipating, I’m not sure I could tell you. But I also know I’m not leaving. The crowd seems to be slowing down. And as I look down on this man, I am stunned when he looks up at me. We are looking at each other. He smiles. He waves. He speaks.
At this point, I leave the perspective of Zacchaeus, and again, I am a spectator in the crowd. I know this man. He is Zacchaeus, the chief tax collector of our town. I also know how I feel about him. He is a citizen of our town who has entered an arrangement with our oppressors to collect taxes. He takes what our enemies require, and then, he takes more to make himself rich.
But now, I not only recognize his face. Because I have been there in the tree with him, I sense what is happening in his heart. How can this man, this other, this enemy have such a longing and desire for meaning and hope? A longing and desire that I feel in my own heart. With all the spite I feel for him, I wonder what it would be like to sit with him and talk about these things.
My time with this story comes to an end with these thoughts that are really a prayer.
Give me the grace this day to feel the yearnings and desires that make me want to join Zacchaeus in the tree. Give me the grace this day to see all around me, especially those I have, for whatever reason, labeled as other, as people who are feeling the same yearning and desires. Are there ways that we can journey together?
Some comments about this reflection.
Notice that the use of imagination releases me to let my focus go where it wants to go.
I can be a spectator. I can be Zacchaeus. I can be a spectator again with the mind and heart of Zacchaeus. I can fast forward the action. I can slow it down or even freeze it so I can see what is in the foreground and background, for there may be something there important for me to consider.
You will also notice that I didn’t go through the whole story. And that’s okay. Part of this practice is what Ignatius calls repetition. If you feel like you aren’t done with the story, or the story isn’t done with you, you can return to it the next time you do this practice.
Also, the reflections can keep happening beyond the exercise. Later in the day, after this practice, I remembered a quote from Graham Greene: “When you visualized a man or a woman carefully, you could always begin to feel pity . . . that was a quality God’s image carried with it . . . when you saw the lines at the corners of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, how the hair grew, it was impossible to hate. Hate was just a failure of imagination.” Greene’s words resonated with my image of Zacchaeus as other, and yet, very much like me.
In her book, What It Is, author and cartoonist Lynda Barry captures the essence of imagination as a spiritual practice: “I believe there is something in these old stories that does what singing does to words. They have transformational capabilities, in the way melody can transform mood. They can’t transform your actual situation, but they can transform your experience of it. We don’t create a fantasy world to escape reality, we create it to be able to stay.”
I invite you again to share your experience with this practice or any other ways you use imagination as a part of your spiritual journey.